It’s your last day in Year One

and we’ve forgotten teacher’s present.

We can give it her tomorrow

you scream and for the 18^th

time this morning I say  

the holidays have come, I say

but holidays from school are not

like holidays from home

and you’ll still wake at 6 o’clock

to ask us if we’re there yet.

You can’t come to my party

has entered the family’s

canon of comedy. Oh, the times

I’ve been uninvited on

occasions such as this one when

your reason is confounded

or you surreptitiously wipe

your snotty nose across my shirt.

That woman in the wheelchair

who chats to the Lollipop Lady

says you’ve always a lovely smile.

I don’t see that from up here

where the angle is obtuse

and I’ve got used to your role

as The Ugly Sister,

squeezing her feet into

the shoes of Cinderella.

A 6- year old bag lady

whose favourite word is bollocks,

who’ll forever be mouth organ

to her full ensemble.

John the Baptist and Madonna

left you hanging in the basket.

The Egyptians have gathered round

and are weighing up the tablets,

whispering of Ritalin.

We’ll never know just how much gin

your mother bathed you in,

but they can measure

your circumferences,

count your chromosomes,

pull you here, pinch you there and consider

the smoothness of your philtrum.

They’ll say they’ve found a planet

in some far off constellation

or a coin that’s been withdrawn

from circulation. Either way

future placement will be difficult.

King Solomon will come along

and say cut them into pieces.

Like Siamese twins, like the cake

you’re not for sharing before she’s whisked

away at midnight to catch a carriage

bound in the opposite direction.

In the long run you won’t see each other often.

In the long run you might even learn to write -

perhaps a Christmas Card, a party invite.